Page 33 of Vow Of Fire

Call it twisted, but it was the most possessive anyone had ever been with me. Not just physically, but emotionally. Dante looked at me like I was his to unravel, and a growing part of me didn’t want to stop him.

My parents had died when I was young. I remembered them fondly, but they’d always seemed more consumed by each other than by me. My relationships since then have been short-lived and easy to manage. Passionate flings with musicians and artists, the sensitive, creative types who burn bright and fade quickly. That always suited me.

I didn’t want to be trapped in a loveless relationship.

But Dante wasn’t like anyone I’d ever known. How could I be attracted to someone like him? A man who wanted to kill me. Who would kill me if he believed I was guilty of betraying him to Malakov.

I watched as he strode to his car and lifted the trunk, tension visible in the straight set of his shoulders, muscles popping on his inked neck. I held my breath. Was he going to pull out a gun? Was this it?

My eyes burned as I watched, then I let out a long sigh of relief when I saw the briefcase.

Except it wasn’t any normal briefcase. It was chunky and made from some type of sturdy metal because it caught the light, making me blink. From where I stood, I could just make out the steel combination locks on either side.

I wondered what was inside. Whatever it was, he was bringing it back to the cabin.

Darting back to the couch, I sat down and picked up the book, trying to look casual and uninterested as he stepped through the door. The very picture of bored captivity.

His mouth quirked and I knew my ploy hadn’t worked.

“Enjoying the book?”

“Yes, actually.” I held it up so he could see the cover. “The count reminds me of you. Not the noble version, though. The controlling, vengeful one.”

I felt a surge of victory as his jaw tightened.

He set the briefcase on the coffee table, then eased himself onto the couch next to me. He looked tired and more than a little dangerous with those dark-rimmed eyes and five o’clock shadow.

“What’s in the case?” I asked, scooting over as far as I could.

“Information.”

I waited, eyebrows raised.

“On you,” he added, flicking open the latches with a metallic click.

Uh-oh.

“Is this my phone records?” I croaked.

“Among other things.” He opened it and took out a pile of papers, some stapled together, some loose. I saw it was printouts of my accounts. I recognized the format.

“What are you doing with those?” I asked. “I thought you had someone looking into them.”

“I did, and he sent me these. I need your help to understand them.”

I smirked, gratified that he didn’t know what the transactions were for. To be fair, if you weren’t in the art world, you wouldn’t know what the references were.

“To make sure you’re not lying to me.”

My smile faded.

“Fine,” I huffed. At least he was giving me a chance to prove my innocence. An open-minded monster.

He spread them out over the table. As he did so, I slid off the couch and sat on the rug to study them. He raised an eyebrow at me, but I crossed my legs and ignored him.

He prodded the sheet he’d placed in front of me. “Let’s start with this one. It’s your personal account.”

I tensed but nodded. Did we really have to go through how many cappuccinos I’d had at Amigo’s last month, and the amount of money I’d spent at Victoria’s Secret? It was my guilty pleasure, okay? Some women bought shoes; I bought underwear.